


Anchor

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: Comfort [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Ian's a sweetheart, If Ian sucks nipples then Mickey likes getting fingered, M/M, Mickey Feels, Mickey can't sleep, PWP, PWP without Porn, Riding, Yes you read that right, a BUTTLOAD of feels, anal penetration, cock as buttplug, excuse for porn, fingers as buttplug, its actually very emotionally charged, its not as kinky as it sounds, mickey has feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:46:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Mickey needs an anchor to remind him that his life is better now. What other way to do that then have something of <i>Ian's</i> inside him, and he's not just talking about bodily fluids.</p><p>“Fingers,” he orders because Mickey Milkovich resolutely does not beg unless he’s being pounded out of his mind that he can claim temporary insanity as a defense. Ian freezes, and Mickey grows impatient when he doesn’t move. “Jesus, did I suck your brain out of your dick when we were fucking or something? I said fingers, Firecrotch, while we’re waiting for your junior to go again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anchor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, it was supposed to be BenWa beads that was going to appease Mickey's anal fixation but then I decided that fingers were more intimate and it fits more with the overall 'comfort' theme. I mean... hey, if Ian's got an oral fixation with sucking Mickey nipples then Mickey gets to have an anal fixation with Ian... ahem... but that's just me. This is really, really, really porny. Don't expect too much. 
> 
> Let's explore the other side of the Comfort Series aka Mickey's comfort.
> 
> **Not Beta Read. Open for Volunteers.**

Sometimes Mickey _needs_. It’s not the overly sexual ‘you need to fuck me up in the ass as soon as possible’ kind of need. It’s not primal—it’s instinctual. Maybe it’s because his mother died shortly after Mandy was born that he never experienced the tenderness of motherly affection, or maybe because Terry fucked-up raising him too much, but he _needs_ something.

He just doesn’t know what it is.

Mickey’s between consciousness and unconsciousness, awake and sleep, drifting but vaguely aware when it happens. Ian and he are on the lazing around on the bed after a vigorous bout of mind-blowing sex. He’s sore and achy in all the best ways possible, the way he knows he will feel the whole day tomorrow at work which he will deny even liking.

He _needs_ but he can’t exactly voice it out.

Sex is different. It’s lustful, and carnal, and primitive. Everyone does it. What he wants is different. He may have gone a long way from being the closeted Milkovich youngest brother, but that doesn’t mean that he goes blurting out his feelings like some _Gallagher_.

A small scoff escapes his lips because he’s dating the most emotional Gallagher of the lot, with so many fucked-up issues that would rival his own, and he’s alright with that—the _dating_ part when he wasn’t before. He fought for this. He wants this.

“Hey,” Ian whispers in his hair, thin long fingers running down his back, “Did I tire you out that much?” It’s cocky and teasing and comfortable, and just to _Ian_ that makes Mickey want to his grin onto Ian’s ridiculously freckled shoulder.

“No,” Mickey lies, doing just that while keeping his voice a little to the gruff _I am so annoyed_ side. In reality, he doesn’t want to move.

They press together from chest to knees, soft sticky cocks laying side by side squished between their thighs and they couldn’t be bothered to clean up the mess—Mickey’s mess really because he can feel Ian’s dripping down his crack—at least not yet. His hole clenches with the emptiness that he recognizes from having Ian’s monstrous nine-inches pounding him to next Saturday.

Tonight, it’s not enough. There’s a whole inside of him where Ian’s carved out a perfect place for himself and Mickey wants it filled.

“Fingers,” he orders because Mickey Milkovich resolutely _does not beg_ unless he’s being pounded out of his mind that he can claim temporary insanity as a defense. Ian freezes, and Mickey grows impatient when he doesn’t move. “ _Jesus_ , did I suck your brain out of your dick when we were fucking or something? I said _fingers_ , Firecrotch, while we’re waiting for your junior to go again.”

That’s a lie and Mickey knows it. As much as he loves— _fucking loves_ —Ian’s dick inside his ass, that’s really not what he needs right now. He needs comfort. He needs an anchor. He needs _Ian_. Just Ian. It doesn’t have to be sex. He just wants Ian, some part of Ian, inside him, connecting them.

“Move,” He presses knuckles onto Ian’s sternum to get the ginger to move.

Ian does, slipping into Mickey’s used sloppy gaping hole, breath hitching like it’s a miracle that he can slip in two fingers so easily despite the fact that his cock—three as thick as fingers—occupied the exact same heat less than ten minutes ago.

Mickey feels something, a sound, reverberate from the depths of his chest as Ian settles down. Long fingers. Ian’s thin, long, pale, fingers filled him with an _ease_ , a power over him that he’s never—he still might not but he’s trying—felt comfortable giving to anyone before, except it’s Ian.

“Mickey—”

“Shut up, don’t talk,” Mickey stops him sharply. He curls further into Ian’s arms. “I just… I need this.” It’s a confession in itself, and it comes with so many unspoken words that might one day be spoken between them. Not now though, neither of them are ready for that yet, so he’ll take this for the meantime.

“Okay,” Ian agrees, just like he always does at times like this. He may have placed Mickey into some uncomfortable positions in the past in order to get where they were not, but he doesn’t when Mickey gets like this—vulnerable, _scared_. “Okay.”

Mickey lays half on top of Ian; whose back is on the bed, fingers still pushed inside him. He knows it’s probably sticky and gross inside asshole with lube and Ian’s come but Ian isn’t complaining. To be honest, and Mickey’s almost never honest, the Ian’s touch feels strangely affectionate.

He cannot even begin to comprehend when _Mickovich_ and _Ian_ and _affection_ could fit in the same sentence together but, apparently, this is his life now. He gets to have this now—sex with Ian, and _Ian_ , and all the shit that comes with it.

And Ian, Ian gets him.

Mickey cares less for everything else as long as he has _Ian_.

He jostles when Ian starts to fidget in disapproval because it forces the fingers to tug at his wore hole unpleasantly, biting his lips. It would have been nice to keep those fingers inside him a little longer.

“I’m cold,” Ian complains, moving again and Mickey dislodges further away from his warm bubble of contentment on Ian’s chest and pulling away his fingers.

“Ya? Tell it to actually gives a shit, Gallagher,” Mickey bites back but there’s no venom to it. He huffs out in annoyance when Ian wiggles again, and it’s enough for Mickey to raise onto his arms to glare at the red head. Extra pissed because he’s empty again. “I said quit moving!”

Ian rolls his eyes and _tugs_. Mickey _does not squeal_ when he gets flipped onto his back because the sheets underneath him disappear.

“You were lying down on the sheets, Dickface,” Ian says, holding up the slightly yellowing white bedsheet and flopping it over their cooling bodies. He gives Mickey no room to protest, and manhandles the slightly older guy on top of him, straddling his lips and legs. It makes more cum ooze out.

Mickey shivers then as a cool hand presses on his lower back. “Ready to go again?” He smirks while he grinds down on Ian’s growing erection. The benefits of youth, and a physically able body, never cease to amaze him. That and Ian’s refractionary period is legendary. He’ll need a couple more minutes at least before he gets it up again.

He’ll just have to get Ian to fuck him while soft, and deny that he loves it until his dying day.

“Something like that,” Ian says. He pads down the bed for the discarded tube of lube from their earlier activities. There’s a snap of the cap opening, the puff of air from the bottle, then the squelch of lube. Mickey’s hole gets coat first, because Ian’s a gentleman like that, before Ian slicks up his cock.

Two hands grip his hips, one wet with lube while the other dry but soft, guiding Mickey down.

Mickeys gasps. It’s barely audible. Then, he shivers full-bodied from the top of his head to the tips of his toes as he sinks down onto Ian’s cock. It still feels so big inside him, stretching him, threatening to rip him apart even if he had it less than an hour ago.

They go slow.

Mickey normally doesn’t like slow but his legs are still jelly from the last round. He lets himself feel the thick slide of Ian’s girth entering him. Without his erection, he’s acutely aware of every single of Ian’s hot flesh that enters his body and the way he adjusts to accommodate it—clenching first before unclenching to loosen his inner walls.

Ian hisses with every pulse. Then he moves, setting the pace at a slow arrhythmic rhythm, uneven and passionate just like them.

“ _Fuck,_ ” Mickey wheezes when Ian hits it—that thing that makes him go cross-eyed and obliterates his brain functions. “Right there, god, _Ian_ , right there, again, please, again, hit it again,” He begs and pleas while clutching onto Ian’s shoulders. “Fuck me, fuck me, Ian, c’mon!”

Ian delivers with brutal thrusts. Hands sure to leave bruises—more bruises—on Mickey’s shoulders in the morning. The bed creaks and moans underneath them. It’s a miracle that the rickety stolen thing hasn’t given up yet, especially with the near-daily regimen of sex.

Mickey rubs himself over Ian’s stomach, scratchy with his cold jizz and that somehow makes it hotter for him. Precum smears over Ian’s pale freckled skin and Mickey loves it. He loves marking the redhead with _his_ saliva and come. It’s as if his scent will get mixed up with Ian’s and _stay there_ even though that notion is impossible. He lets himself dream.

“Don’t black out,” Ian warns, wrapping a hand around Mickey to get the brunette’s attention. Mickey hitches his breath as long fingers squeeze painfully.

“Sorry.” Mickey doesn’t even know what he’s saying by now. “I just thought about marking you up.”

Ian comes, and by the looks of it, taking him by complete and utter surprise. He presses his forehead on Mcikey’s chest, shuddering violently with broken pants blowing over Mickey’s abs.

“Fuck, Mickey, you can’t just blurt out shit like that and make me come like I’m a fucking teenager!” He complains, whole face heated up. It’s an odd combination of adorable and erotic that probably shouldn’t work but it works on Ian.

“Yeah?” Mickey breaths, feeling proud of himself for unknown reasons. He licks his lips and pulls Ian’s face up so that they’re eye to eye, and enjoys the way Ian face is flushed to match his hair. They kiss. Simple and sweet like Ian doesn’t have his cock up Mickey’s ass or his fingers holding Mickey’s dick.

It’s Ian who grows impatient and starts to move his hand.

Mickey cannot say anything. The power to form coherent words or even thoughts leave him. He pants, wet and open, into Ian’s ear and lets his orgasm build—starting from the depths of his stomach into high that only Ian can draw out of him.

A flick of a nail on his slit and he’s gone.

Ian holds him through it until his body stops shaking.

“Clean up?”

Mickey knows he’ll regret this in the morning but he shakes his head.

Ian nods his head and maneuvers them into a move comfortable position without bothering to pull out. A thin trickle of come squeezes past Mickey’s rim at the movement. Neither of them say anything about it. Eventually Ian falls back into a half-reclined position with a cuddly Mickey Milkovich sprawled on top of him while their lower halves stay connected.

“Don’t complain about your knees tomorrow.”

“Fuck off, Firecrotch.” Mickey bites Ian’s clavicle for emphasis. Ian follows him into dreamland.

Sometime during the night, they shift positions. Or rather, Mickey feels Ian moving them around. He bites his lip to keep from hissing as Ian pulls out of him. They settle on their sides. Already, he notices the burn in his legs from being bent for so long. Ian rubs his hand over his thighs as if reading his mind, pressing lightly at the sore spots until they’re gone.

Then, without prompting, he settles fingers inside Mickey. They go in mechanically but no less affectionate than before like he sensed Mickey needed them tonight. The cheesy asshole kisses Mickey on the forehead before his breathing evens out again.

This time, Mickey follows.

It helps because, dare he say it, it feels a lot like love.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hello beautiful people of the Gallavich fandom. Thank you for being so welcoming~ I hope you're enjoying this series so far. I'm just really exploring the two headcanons I have of Ian and Mickey. Anyway... so, I've had this idea in my head for a really long time (two weeks). Do you think you guys will be interested in it? PS. This is me looking for someone to brainstorm with. Haha.
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


End file.
